


His skin under my hand

by Cheshire



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mirror Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Plant sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Shameless Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10073609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheshire/pseuds/Cheshire
Summary: You can’t touch him, but he can touch himself. You tell him to, and again, Takumi says yes.Birthright AU. Leo instead of Iago possesses Takumi.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta’d and barely proofread. I just needed this out of my head so I could keep going on my other fic. Enjoy, I guess.

You remember his mind struggling against your control when you first slipped into his darkest doubts. There’s not supposed to be any struggle. Your father says it’s because you’re too soft, and even Prince Takumi’s fragile mind can sense your weakness. He can sense that if he thrashes like a wounded animal, you’d be fool enough to nurse his injuries and let him go.

Takumi doesn’t struggle against you now. He hasn’t for days.

The first night, you felt the tremors of his nightmares. You’ve occupied his mind in the evenings ever since, snuffing out all his fears like dying embers. You stay until his mind is clear, until the only thing that remains there is you.

He does what you want. Takumi reaches out to adjust a tall mirror, so it faces him. You only see through his eyes, and that mirror is your favorite goddamn thing in the world.

He doesn’t know how he makes your heart race when you see his reflection smile. It’s shy, there one second and gone the next, but it’s for you—only you. (He’s beautiful. He’s flawless. You want to hold him. You want to protect him. The thought hurts you, because your father would hurt you too if he knew.)

Takumi undresses slowly. His boots and gloves were already left by the door, but now he unties the bands wrapping the furs and armor around his waist. He’s slimmer without them, not waifish but thin like a sword, a body honed for war and by it.

The overcoat goes next, then the layers of blue cloth peeled back and shrugged into a pool around bare legs. He takes his hair down, and it falls over his shoulders in loose waves of silver. He flushes red in his cheeks, but the rest of him is unashamed—and why wouldn’t he be? He’s lovely.

You admire him, and Takumi lets you. He checks the mirror, angles it so you can see all of him and then some. You feel yourself go hard, breathless, but you don’t bother with yourself just yet. You sink into your chair and lean back.

Takumi leans back too. He spreads his knees. You see the fragile curve of his bare neck, his faded scars exposed like pages in a diary, the taut muscle in his thighs, the stiffness of his cock—he rolls his hips, his lips shape the word _yes_ , and you want desperately to touch him. You want to cup his face, to kiss him, to press your body to his, to feel him rocking against you.

You can’t touch him, but he can touch himself. You tell him to, and again, Takumi says _yes_.

You see what he sees. You feel what he feels.

His hand tightens at the base of his shaft. At his first stroke, you tell him to go slower, pace himself, and he obliges you. You would take your time with him. You’d savor every stolen moment, furtive lovers where every second is precious.

Takumi’s warm under his own hand, feverish and tight in his groin. You are too, but you can’t tell when he ends and you begin. He takes you in long, steady strokes, and you need to remember to breathe. He says _yes_ in response to you, and what you’re saying is some combination of _fuck_ , _faster_ , and _Takumi_.

You wish he were here, or that you were there. You imagine you could hold him down, take him into your mouth, feel his heat against your tongue. You imagine your hands in his hair, his legs wrapped around you, his heartbeat racing in time with yours. You imagine how he would taste, how he would feel, but you don’t need to imagine what he’d look like.

He’s feverish in his reflection. His breath comes fast and hot, he wears a sheen of sweat, and his hand’s wet from his own precum. He strokes himself harder and faster, and you allow it.

His eyes flutter shut. Your vision of him goes dark, and you tell him _no_. Not yet. You want to see him like this for a while longer.

When Takumi opens his eyes again, he’s taken his hand away. He’s on display, painfully erect, as long as you are but not as thick. He preens in the mirror, and you love it.

You savor the moment, and you’re thankful you did when it’s interrupted.

There’s a sound. There’s someone else over there. You consider breaking something but decide against it. That’d be silly.

Takumi jolts upright, eyes wide. He whirls towards the door, which slams shut, but before it does you see a silhouette you’ve come to recognize. You hear a flurry of muffled apologies.

“Hinata!” Takumi calls out. His voice is breathless, his mouth is dry. He repeats it, and the door opens again. “Hinata.”

Takumi stands. It’s with some difficulty, but Takumi manages to take a step. He wraps himself in a single layer of blue cloth, and he beckons. “No, come in,” he says. “Please.”

Hinata freezes. His expression goes from terrified to nervous to bashfully eager. He says, with a gentleness and familiarity that you resent, “Okay.”

Takumi takes his hand and he pulls Hinata to stand before the mirror. He gazes up at Hinata—sweetly, like a lover, and in that moment you wish Hinata would burn, you _hate_ him, you want to _be_ him—and Takumi kneels.

When Takumi glances into the mirror, he smiles again—your heart melts, again. He plays your emotions like a song. You are his symphony.

You don’t know what he’s doing. You’ve lost control. You search for it, but the magic holds strong. He’s still yours. There’s nothing that’s gone wrong for you to fix. You’re fumbling, but the spell is not. Takumi does what _you_ want, you know this for a fact. You have no idea what you want.

Hinata fumbles with his clothes and Takumi does too. They’re inexperienced. They don’t know each other, not like this. In the end, Hinata’s out of his armor, and he stammers as Takumi pauses to keep himself erect. Hinata offers to take care of it for him, but you and Takumi both say _no_.

Takumi nudges the mirror so all you see is him and Hinata’s enviable cock. Equal parts rage and jealousy threaten to overtake you, but in the end you can’t take your eyes away.

Takumi has a hand at the base of Hinata’s shaft, and he kisses it before he takes the rest into his mouth. He sucks with abandon and he strokes himself. You feel the warmth in his mouth, and you see his cheeks hollowed out and lips moaning around Hinata’s cock. He’s relentless, but he remembers he’s not allowed to come.

Takumi’s satisfied when Hinata’s gone thick and hard. He peels away, which brokers complaint from both you and his retainer. He licks his swollen lips. “Go to my nightstand,” he says, and Hinata about faces and does exactly what he’s told. Takumi watches from his position splayed on the ground, pleased. (You hate it. You love it.)

Hinata hands him a jar. You know what it is as soon as Takumi takes it. He pulls Hinata down and leans against him. He turns to see himself in the mirror as best he can, legs splayed and ass up in the air. “Ready me.”

Hinata is silent in his obedience. He douses his fingers in oil, and he holds Takumi steady as he inserts a finger into him then two. Takumi hums and whines his approval—you had always wondered what sounds he would make—but when he starts rocking against Hinata’s hand, you say _stop_.

Takumi sulks, but he takes Hinata’s hand away.

Takumi turns to face the mirror. He nudges Hinata behind him, directing him with occasional glances at their reflection. He’s mindful of your view. You see Takumi, who’s heavy-lidded, trembling, and moments from coming. Hinata is an accessory. You decide you’re okay with that.

He aligns himself with Hinata’s cock and sinks down onto him. His breath hitches. He doesn’t close his eyes. He stares at his reflection. Through it, you watch him work himself to desperation. He doesn’t care for composure. He doesn’t look like a prince. He looks like a pretty whore, and he is _yours_.

He’s close—he’s _been_ close all this time—but he can’t come without you. You won’t allow it. Takumi plunges down on Hinata with shameless, breathless cries. Your hand moves in time with his body. His back arches. His nails claw into Hinata’s skin. He draws blood. He neither notices nor cares.

 _Please_ becomes the only word he knows. “Please,” he says, and he repeats it like a prayer, like devotion. For once, you say _yes_.

When he comes, you feel the shudder that claims him. His body sings for you, and yours for him.

Takumi near collapses into Hinata’s arms. Exhaustion threatens to take him, but he turns to Hinata. You have half a mind to tell Takumi to send his retainer away, forever and as far as he can possibly go, but Takumi’s already running his hand along Hinata’s shaft.

Vaguely, through a haze, you hear Hinata saying _are you okay_ and _no, don’t worry about me_. Takumi ignores him. You want him to listen. You don’t want him concerned about someone else, but you don’t stop him.

Both his hands wrap around Hinata, and he pumps from the base to the tip. It doesn’t take long for Hinata to come in a white splatter across Takumi’s naked chest.

Hinata reaches out to him, but Takumi brushes him away—too sharply, brusque enough for it to be a reprimand. His retainer flinches, a reaction that you find wonderfully satisfying. You’re petty, you realize, but you don’t care.

Takumi sends him away, nearly pushes him out of the door. Hinata leaves baffled and wounded, but Takumi pecks him on the cheek for goodnight, and that seems to smooth everything over. He closes the door and makes sure to lock it shut.

He sits down in front of the mirror, his hair a scandalous mess, his face flushed and pupils blown. He hasn’t cleaned the cum off his skin. He’s debauched. He’s destroyed.

Takumi smiles for you, and you swear it’s the sweetest thing in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal as before, except I guess this is now a multiparter.

It’s been three weeks and four days since you stole into his mind, since you bent his will to your own, since you made Takumi yours. You count the days like a miser counts gold.

Possession is a tool of war, to make spies where you have none, but when you call Takumi into the Woods of the Forlorn, it’s not to serve as your pawn.

You’re here to execute Corrin, but you’re also here to see the boy you love.

You shouldn’t do this. _This is folly_ , you hear in your brother’s voice. _You are weak_ , you hear in your father’s voice. You don’t care. You need this.

Midnight’s long since come and gone when you finally call for Takumi to you. Corrin’s army sleeps, and Takumi is startlingly sure-footed as he makes his way through the Woods of the Forlorn—to you. The bramble underfoot doesn’t slow him, the poisonous bogs are no obstacle, and the pitch black of night gives him no pause. He bounds across even the most treacherous terrain as lightly as a breeze. He is weightless. He is a wonder.

He looks for you, but it’s too dark to see far into the shadows, and you haven’t made a sound.

You don’t want him to know who pulls his strings. (You remember how he sneered on the battlefield, _Nohrian scum_ ¸ how he detested you. You remember his loathing, and it was meaningless then, but it would ruin you now.)

Magic springs from your fingertips. A wreath of flowering vines twist into existence. It falls and tightens over Takumi’s eyes, fragrant white blossoms and deep green leaves that blind him.

Every muscle in his body tenses. He whirls to face you—unseeing, but he’s a hunter, he tracks you with more than just sight.

When Takumi reaches to tear the flowers away, you say _no_. His hand brushes the petals, he breathes their heady fragrance, and he lets his hand fall back down to his side.

“Who are you?” he asks, so softly that at first you aren’t sure he said anything at all.

You don’t answer, but you reach out to him, to trace his jaw gently, carefully—as if he might break, as if he might disappear. In the darkness of the woods, he could be a ghost. He is a pale silhouette, silver hair and fair skin. He doesn’t belong here. He could be a creature of your imagination, a trick of your mind to comfort you as the war threatens everything you hold dear.

You plant a trail of kisses down his neck. He is pliant, like one of your sister’s dolls, pretty and all too easy to break. You could slit his neck open and watch him bleed out if you wanted. He wouldn’t be able to stop you.

He leans into your touch, but he’s stubborn. “Every night, you’re there, you’re listening—all the way until dawn if I needed you to stay. You've heard all my secrets. You know everything there is to know about me. Why can’t I know anything about you?”

You are silent. He’s undeterred.

Takumi wraps his arms around your neck and pulls you close. You smell sweet honeysuckle and clemantis blossoms, but he’s the one that overcomes your senses. He makes your face flush and your mouth go dry, he makes your heart sing, and all the rest of the world fades away.

You feel the weight of him on you as he buries his face in your neck, the flowers over his eyes soft against your chin. He breathes you in, he laps at the taut muscle of your neck, he bites into your shoulder and hums when he hears you hiss.

He pauses, and when he speaks, he’s lost in thought. “Tell me, do you normally wear armor?” Takumi asks before he kisses over the bite marks he left on your skin, red and raw. His fingertips trace the muscles in your back, and he knows how you’ve shouldered the weight of steel day in and day out for half your life. “You feel like you do.”

You don’t respond to that either, and Takumi scowls—then he kisses you on your mouth, teeth glancing against your bottom lip. “Once for yes,” he says. Then he kisses you again, twice. “Twice for no.”

 _Once_. You kiss him with tongue. You feel the heat of his mouth, the sharp intake of breath—delighted, he’s too pleased that you’ve accepted his terms—and then you break away. (This is reckless. This is a mistake.) Takumi licks his lips, and you wait for him to speak again.

Takumi takes your hands into his own. He presses his lips to your palms, where your left is soft and your right calloused from swordplay. He sucks your fingertips, and he notes the neatness of your nails, even and precisely trimmed, vain. He tastes your barely there papercuts from yesterday, then trails kisses down to your wrist.

“But you must be a mage,” he muses, each word a priceless breath against your skin. “I had thought a sorcerer. Are you?”

 _Twice_. The first kiss is long and drawn out, lovers in the dark with every second lasting forever. It leaves both of you gasping, but you follow it with a second kiss—quick, teasing, glib. When you pull away, Takumi looks like he wants to bite you again, and you’d welcome it.

He thinks. Idly, you undo the clasps and ties of the furs around his waist. They fall to the ground, and Takumi doesn’t stop you. He’s lost in thought, absentminded as he helps you undo the knots on his coat. You slip his clothes off his shoulders, and when they fall to the ground, he kicks them aside.

He is a boy, but his body is a weapon—like a carefully honed edge, like a balanced blade. You run your hands down his chest to rest at his hips, enjoying the softness of his skin but his body is like steel. Takumi shifts so your hands slip from his hips to his ass, and you swear he smirks.

“They say there’s a prince of Nohr who commands the earth and trees. A mage.”

(You realize that the flowers were brazen. You wonder if some part of you meant to give yourself away, or perhaps you just wanted to see him naked and wearing only flowers of your own making.)

Takumi leans in and white petals brush against your hair. He whispers your name into your ear like something precious, something loved, “ _Leo_.”

 _Once_ , on his lips and gentle as can be. He waits for a second kiss that never comes. Takumi grins, and you wish there were daylight, you wish you could take him somewhere bright and beautiful, somewhere with the wind and the sea, where you could build him a garden of everything.

He takes your right hand, your sword hand, and places it at the base of his cock. He rubs against your palm, demanding without words. His hands are cold, but his shaft is feverishly warm as you wrap your fingers around him.

Takumi is a vision before you, faithful and unquestioning, white petals and blind trust, trembling in the darkness as his body rocks against yours.

You feared he would reject you if he knew you, but not anymore.

His hands trace your face, then his lips follow. He adores the soft angles of your jaw, littering soft kisses down your jaw, where he licks and nips in turn. He finds your mouth, and the way smiles when he does melts your heart. He is like sunshine. He is like the spring wind. He is like everything you don’t have, that you don’t deserve.

He kisses you with a hunger you didn’t expect. His breaths are shallow and excited. He gasps against your mouth as you work his shaft, and he thrusts into your hand. His tongue is warm, persistent, and demanding. He tangles his hands in your hair and pulls you closer. He lets you breathe, although you think he might forget you need air if he weren’t under your control.

His voice trembles. “I want to see you,” he demands.

 _No_. You kiss him twice. You like him like this.

“I want to _hear_ you,” he says. His hands trail down your chest. He fumbles with the unfamiliar buttons and clasps of your clothes until his hand slips down past an undone belt.

He finds your cock, as hard as his. He whispers in your ear, “I want to feel you. Inside me.”

You take your hand away, leaving him rigid, wet in precum, and exposed to the night air.

He grumbles, he grouses, he presses against you, his cock sliding against your stomach. He reaches down for himself, and a vine seizes him by the wrist.

A grove of trees burst out of the wet earth, Brynhildr’s work of white bark and green leaves, vibrant and nothing like the clawing, grasping trees of the Woods.

Vines writhe and twist around Takumi’s wrists. They drag him upwards off the ground with his back pressed against tree bark. When you’re not certain it’s enough to support his weight—you forget that he’s all muscle, heavier than he looks—a second set of vines coil around his forearms. They pull his hands up over his head, secured against the branches above.

When he cries out, you realize someone might hear. His voice is cut off by a tendril of ivy that wraps around his neck and tightens. He’s soundless, and you feel him start to panic. He can't move, he can't breathe, he can't see. He's tangled in your magic, drawn against white bark and white flowers, bound to follow your commands. You allow him to breathe. He gasps sharply for air, painfully.

“Trust me,” you say, your first words to him.

His head is thrown back, his face flushed. His body shakes as he takes deep, greedy breaths. He licks his lips before he can form words. “Yes,” he says, and there is nothing more in the world you want right now. “Leo, _yes_ ,” he says, and you know you belong to him forever.

He’s pinned spread eagled against the conjured trees. He pulls his knees up, an invitation, and a leafless vine, viscous and dripping, brushes lightly against him before it plunges in. Takumi moans as he squirms against the vine inside him, spreading himself open as best he can.

“Leo,” he says, insistent and demanding. He repeats it, “Leo, hurry up, _Leo_.” He doesn’t realize that you could listen to him speak your name all day, for years on end if you could. You savor the sound of his voice, you savor every moment. You shouldn’t be here, but you are, because he is worth every risk. He makes your heart sing.

“Leo, I’m good. Leo, you—Nohrian scum, _fuck me already_.”

You watch him writhe for a little longer. He is flushed and shaking. So are you.

The vine retreats out of him, and you take its place. Your cock pushes into him. He’s slick and feverishly warm, so tight that you consider pulling out, to work him with your fingers until he’s you’re sure he’ll be alright, but he cries _Leo_ and you don’t stop.

His back arches, he moans your name. You have dreamed of this, nightly bastions among a thousand different nightmares. (Everywhere you turn, your world falls apart, but Takumi remains.) He wants you. He demands you. He says _harder_ , he says _faster_ , and you obey.

You would take him gently, sweetly. If things were different, if there were no war, you’d like to woo him over candlelit dinners, buy him pretty trinkets from the night markets, and bring him impossible bouquets that only you can make. You would try to win his heart in truth, without magic.

But he wants none of it. Takumi fucks himself on you. You can tell he wasn’t ready, that he was either impatient or he intended this to hurt him. He is merciless to his own body, and he ravages yours. You lose yourself, you think of him, you feel only him, between gasps you say _Takumi_ and _please_.

You think he’s bleeding, but he snarls at you when you slow down. He rejects your concern, and for the first time in weeks, he struggles against your command to _stop_ , to _recuperate_. You feel the magic begin to unravel, his will against yours, and you rescind the commands desperately, as if you could catch regret out of the air.

Your spell holds, and as long as you thrust into him without remorse, he offers no protest. You want to make him happy, but he wants to be destroyed.

You let him tear himself apart. You let him use your body as a weapon. You don’t want to risk angering him, to risk losing him.

Takumi sings your name, and you’re thankful that even if you lose everything in this war, you at least found him.

He comes in a violent tremor, one that flogs his body—you’re worried, you fear for him. He cries your name, _Leo_ , and it’s hoarse and tired. He repeats it, “Leo,” and it is a soft whisper, loving. His vigor drains out of him, he stills, and you pull out of him in the vain hope that he’s unhurt.

Brynhildr’s magic fades. You dismiss the trees, the vines, the white flowers. Takumi falls bonelessly, and you are there to catch him in your arms. There’s specks of blood on his back and on you, and you never wanted to hurt him—you can’t _believe_ you would hurt him. (Does it matter that he wanted this? Or was it you that wanted this, and he merely carrying out your will?)

Your voice wavers when you ask, “Are you alright—“

He interrupts you with a kiss. This one lingers at your bottom lip where his teeth glide against you just enough to tease. “Never been better,” he says, and he makes it sound true.

He sees you now that the flowers are gone. He is heavy-lidded and exhausted, you’re not sure he’ll be walking tomorrow, but he gazes at you as if he gazed upon the stars.

“Leo,” he breathes. He has your attention, but he always does.

“Yes?” you ask.

Takumi smiles up at you, sweet and kind. He kisses you lightly on the jaw, like a breeze, there one second and gone the next. You’ve dreamed his next words, “Leo, I love you.”

For a second, you stop breathing. Then you wrap your arms around him and hold him closer. He’s content with that and settles against you like the last piece of a puzzle. You have dreamed of this too.

You want to believe him, but you don’t. You don't have your brother's charisma or your sister's beauty. There's no reason for Takumi to love you.

But when you have him here in your arms, you can pretend he’s a lover come home, returned to you, and all is right in the world. For a time, you can feel at peace.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re stalling,” Iago says.

He appears out of nowhere, bright rings of magic dissipating as he warps into the Woods of the Forlorn. He bows to you, but he looks to Takumi’s kneeling at your side, naked and keening in a bed of flowers with as many vines as you could shove into him. You tell Takumi to _shush_ , and he is silenced, quiet even when the tendrils writhe inside him just so.

“Stalling is my best strategy,” you reply. Iago raises an eyebrow, his nose wrinkles, and you are polite enough to ignore his distaste. “The longer I delay, the more Faceless I’ll have summoned to fight at my side when Corrin’s army arrives to the bogs. If I was supposed to make haste, that wasn’t mentioned when my father gave me my orders.”

Iago frowns, a polite mixture of professional concern and sneering judgment. “But Prince Leo, you’ve been in these woods for over a week now. Are you perhaps enjoying your pawn’s company too much?”

You look over to Takumi. He’s hard and dripping. He’s come four times since you called him to you tonight. You haven’t touched him once yet.

You beckon to him, and Takumi crawls on his hands and knees into your lap, every motion sending a tremor down his spine. The vines follow him and snake in deeper. He bites his lip. He doesn’t make a sound.

Gently, you brush his hair out of his face, and his skin feels like burning, his pupils blown wide. You kiss away his tears.

“Am I?” you ask Iago. “He is my enemy, the brother Corrin abandoned me for, and he obeys my every whim. He debases himself. Why shouldn’t I enjoy that? Wouldn’t you?”

It’s not a trick question, but Iago hesitates as if it were. “No,” he finally answers, and for once he sounds honest. “I would send him to another’s bed if I had reason to—to your bed, now that I know it is your pleasure, Your Highness—but I have no interest in pawns myself.”

You shrug. You’ve always known the only thing Iago likes is power. “Should you ever find yourself in control of him then, send him to me.”

“Certainly.” Iago bows low, though not as low as he does for your father. “I will take my leave, Your Highness, begging pardon for the intrusion. King Garon only wished to know why Corrin still lives, and I will tell him what you told me. However, I suggest you move your plans along as quickly as you can. His Majesty grows impatient.”

“Understood.”

Iago has more to say, and you wait to see if he dares to say it. He does—an unusual turn of events. You’ve never known him to be brave. “Prince Leo, if I may, you must not become sentimental.”

Your response is precise: not too hasty, not too delayed, spoken with reassuring conviction. “I will execute Corrin, Iago, fear not. My heart feels nothing for traitors to Nohr.”

You both know he wasn’t talking about Corrin, so he doesn’t correct you. His point was made. Iago bows deeply again. “I’m glad to hear it. I will pray for your success, Your Highness, and I wish you good night.”

Iago leaves the same way he arrived, in a series of glowing magic circles and a flash of light. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You are alone again with Takumi.

You realize Takumi had been waiting for Iago to leave, now that he is close, now that you are within his reach. (You had told him to _stay_ , and so he’d stayed for hours, fucked endlessly by thick tendrils of everything and anything you could conjure.)

Takumi shifts in your lap to straddle you around the waist. He busies your mouth with a flurry of kisses to keep you quiet, to keep you distracted, but you catch his hand before he reaches any lower than your stomach. “Takumi—“

He crushes his lips against yours, and you know he’s bitten his tongue to stay quiet when you taste blood in your mouth. He laces his fingers with yours. His hands shake, and he feels like he might shatter. He buries his face into your neck, he holds onto you as if you are what keeps him together, as if you are the only thing that matters.

“You can speak now,” you tell him, because the silence was only for Iago.

“Leo,” he whispers into your mouth in that way you love. “ _Leo_.”

His breath hitches as the vines rock his body. He desperately needs to rest, he’s drained, he has nothing left, but he thrusts against you between pained gasps. He’s falling apart, he struggles for air, he struggles to hold onto whatever semblance of self he might’ve had.

You free one of your hands from to place it on his cock. You neither stroke nor squeeze, but he comes instantly at your touch. Takumi cries out, high and thin, exhausted. Five times he's come tonight, and this last one is barely anything, he spills white onto you but not much. You worry that you push him too far, but he's told you countless times that he dislikes it when you worry, that he wants you to push him farther.

He rests his head against your shoulder, moaning softly as the vines continue to dig into him. Takumi licks his lips before he can speak again. He reaches to undo your pants, his movements slow and dazed, but again you move his hand away and he's powerless to stop you. He settles for complaining, “You never let me touch you.”

“But I do,” you say, and it’s a lie. You’ve let him kiss you—you love his kisses too much to deny yourself that—and when he demands it, you savor every moment of your mouth around him or your cock inside of him. You touch _him_. You have choked the breath out of him, you have shredded his skin with thorns and bark and blades, you have made him burn and bleed, and he delights in it. You don't, your only comfort is that it must be what _he_ wants because it’s not what _you_ want, but you do want to become the man he would love, if he were free.

“You don’t,” he mumbles, and it’s the start of an argument that you'd rather avoid. The vines slip out and thrust back into him, they are a punishing staccato, and Takumi buries his face into your shoulder with a broken gasp.

The vines coil and unfurl. You’ve been kind to him tonight, and Brynhildr’s creations were sweet, sensitive, preferring to tease, to caress, to make love. Now, they are vicious, and you remind Takumi that Brynhildr is a weapon.

He is a teary-eyed mess sobbing against you. He’s half hard already, he’s already been pushed far past his limits. He steadies himself against you, holds himself up against you. His nails dig into your skin—you close your eyes, you savor the sensation.

“Leo—Leo, _please_.” His voice is hoarse, he clings to you like there’s nothing else in the world.

He kisses you on the neck, then his lips trail down your chest, undoing buttons and pulling off your shirt as he goes. His tongue laps at your stomach and then lower—you stop him.

Takumi looks up at you, kneeling between your legs while the vines plunge into him, and he is stunning. His eyes are black pools, brightly framed in red. His hair falls around him, wondrously upset. He is flushed red, he is _lovely_ , he is a gift worthy of a king.

He presses his lips to the cloth over your cock. You’re hard, not for the first time tonight. You’ve taken care of yourself with your hand, and Takumi had begged you to use his mouth, but you kept him where he was—away, out of your reach.

“I want this,” Takumi says. You have dreamed of this since you met him, so you don’t believe him.

His fingers slide past the hem of your waistband. You seize his hand and push it away. “No.” You try to hide that you’re afraid, but your voice betrays you. “ _No_.”

He flinches, he’s wounded. You don’t know why.

Takumi shoves away from you without much strength, he stumbles back, he falls to the ground. He pulls Brynhildr’s vines out of himself—you dismiss them, they’re gone until he wants them again. He weeps softly, so softly that you barely hear—you could dismiss his tears too, you could command him, but you want to know what you’ve done wrong.

You take a step towards him, and he hisses, “Don’t. Don’t _bother_.” He’s collapsed on his knees, silver hair undone and pooling around him. He hugs his own shoulders, he seems smaller and younger, fragile. His voice shakes with an emotion that you haven’t heard from him before. You think it’s fury, or perhaps resentment. “Why not call your retainers? They could lay waste to me for you. You wouldn't have to lift a finger.”

You think of Odin, who thinks nothing of improbable and even less of impossible. You think of Niles, who breaks his lovers in a way that would make Takumi’s heart race. You can imagine a world where Takumi falls in love with either of them so much more easily than a world where he falls in love with you.

“Never. I can hardly bear the thought.”

“So all this is for you alone then, for you to ruin.“ He gestures to himself, cum-splattered but beautiful all the same, scandalous, a perfect disaster. He smiles, but it twists his face in a way that is icy cold, it cuts you like a knife. “Am I your revenge on Corrin? Are you proud that you made a prince into a whore?”

You remember what you said to Iago, you had thought you told an obvious lie.

“No. _No_. Takumi, I don’t—Takumi, I love you. I do,” you say, but you are nervous, you are stunned, you are desperate. You were more convincing with Iago, you are better at lying than confessing. “Takumi, I’ll tell Iago whatever I need to for him to leave me be. You must at least know that I care for you.”

Takumi looks at you through tired, heavy-lidded eyes. He sighs and pulls his knees to his chest, childlike and vulnerable. He is too exhausted to snap at you, too exhausted to be angry. “I know that you enjoy seeing me like this— _used, defiled_. I know you enjoy it most when I’m happy and willing. It has to be willing. You're hard in seconds whenever I ask for something vile.“

You are silent. You are lost, and when you find yourself, you are a fool.

Free will never had anything to do with it. When Takumi delighted in the pain, the restraints, the begging, it was because _you_ delighted in it. In those moments, you believed you were acting as lovers, as the lover Takumi wanted, that you were somehow worthy—but it was not so. It was always about you, about serving you. You are the master, and he the slave.

You had thought that there was a chance however slim that he might learn to love you in return, that it might be more than the spell. He is a prince, he is an equal, an intellectual, a kindred soul. He is too good to be true, the past week with him was too good to be true, yet you dared hope. You were _sentimental_.

You feel sick. You _are_ sick, you are a monster.

Takumi relents. His expression softens, he reaches out for your hand, but you don’t take it. When he speaks, it’s sweet, it’s an apology. “It’s _fine_ , Leo. I would give myself to your retainers to please you, Leo. I would give so much to please you. Use me as you wish, I do like it, Leo—please don’t think I don’t.”

You step away from him, you find your things, you find vulneraries, and you return to Takumi with them. He takes them from you with a sullen face—he despises the healing. He’d rather wear his cuts and bruises with pride, he says they remind him of you.

You stay with Takumi long enough to help him with the vulneraries. Perhaps you even take your time, lingering over his skin with the ointment. You prefer healing him over hurting him, and these are precious moments.

“I need to go,” you say when Takumi looks like he was never here, when he can stand and walk, when he is whole again.

“But it’s hours until dawn,” he protests. He’s confused. For all the other nights, you stayed with Takumi long after tending to his wounds, either because you wanted to listen to him talk away the hours, or because you were too jealous to let him go any earlier than you had to.

Fear crosses his face, and the fear becomes panic. His voice trembles, it goes up an octave, he thinks he's done the unthinkable, that he's displeased you. “Leo, don’t send me away, please. Are you mad at me? I’m sorry. I’ll do what you say from now on. I won’t complain, I’m sorry I did. I was greedy, I hoped for more, that we could be more, but we can be whatever you want. I know I don’t deserve—“

You tell him to be _silent_.

You leave Takumi in the grove alone. He mouths the word  _Leo_. He mouths the word  _please_. He is heartbroken, and you are too.

Tomorrow, you will fight Corrin, and then you will wash your hands of this affair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: No smut. Sorry. Had to move the plot along.
> 
> Actual Warning: Suicidal depression.

When Takumi returns to camp, you feel no end to his emotions, his fear, his distress, his self-doubt rising to the point of panic. He wants you back, he wants you close, he wants your approval, he wants so many things. You have made him want so many things—to want you.

He can’t sleep, he doesn’t want to for fear of what his dreams might bring. His mind is mired in doubts and debris, replaying over and over what he said to you, what you said to him, what he could have said instead. He’s convinced himself he’s made a mistake, that this is all his fault, that for once he had something (someone) beautiful, and he squandered it.

It’s not so. You try to tell him it’s not so. You tell him to _rest_ , but he recoils at the thought, he thinks you are sending him away. He is terrified, and you are what terrifies him.

You venture into his mind. You build a garden of wonders, a safe haven with high briar walls and blood red roses. You blot out his fears with blossoming trees and flowers. You are there, one last time, to ease his worries.

You do not want to become another one of his nightmares.

 

*

 

At sunrise, you head to the graveyard within the poison bogs, where you will meet Corrin in battle, where he will decide your fate. It seems only practical to fight here. No one would have to carry your body very far.

At sunrise, Takumi looks for you. He’s supposed to be hunting, but instead of tracking game, he retraces his footsteps, he searches out the grove where he last saw you, where you last saw him. He won’t find you there, you are long gone from where you were with him last night, but you tell him to _stop_ all the same. You tell him to go back, be with his family and his friends. He fights your will, and he loses.

You feel his confusion. You feel him asking _why_. You don’t know how to put into words that you long for him, but not like this.

Throughout the day, Takumi’s hurt turns to anger. You’ve known him to be stubborn, but you’ve never known him to be cruel. Yet he drags Hinata into the woods alone, and when they fuck, you hear the sweet nothings Takumi whispers in his retainer’s ear, you feel him climax, you feel his comfort and ease when he curls up in Hinata’s arms. _I love you_ , he says to someone else. _This could have been us_ , Takumi says to you without saying anything at all.

You ignore him. What else is there to do? You have your own fate to worry about. Either you kill Corrin, or Corrin kills you.

There is little for you to do but wait. You summon all the resentment you have for Corrin. He is not your brother, but you love him as one—and you hate him too, as a brother. He is older than you, but he’s callow, he’s naïve. He never drenched his hands in blood in the name of Nohr. The moment he had the chance, he turned his back on all of you. Corrin, who your siblings showered with affection as they have never done to you, does not understand what he left behind when he chose Hoshido. Corrin chose the light.

You understand why. You might’ve done the same, but you are Nohrian born and bred. You don’t have that choice. The light was never meant for you.

In the Forest of the Forlorn, the days are as dark as night. You know the time—of course you know the time, you the measure the hours by their shadows, as you always have. It’s the only way you know how, so when Odin reminds you to eat, it’s not because you lost track of the sun.

Odin shows his concern readily, veiled behind a tapestry of fanciful words. Odin makes sure you take your meals, that you are not too alone, that you are not caged in your own silence. Yet it is Niles that truly speaks to you first.

“You’re lovesick, my lord. In the streets, we cure that with cheap wine and cheaper whores. Not that you’ll find much of either here,” Niles says to you in the graveyard, where you’ve hidden yourself away. His tone is heavier than his words.

Conversely, your tone is lighter than your words. “I could also die today. They say death cures most anything.”

“They say the same about love.” When you don’t respond, Niles speaks again. “Why not free him? You must have given that some thought already.”

The reason ought to be obvious, but you humor him. You owe Niles that much. “I’d lose him if I did. He has every reason to loathe me.”

Niles nods, but he doesn’t look like he agrees. “Then control him forever—take the boy and leave. Odin and I can report to King Garon that you died valiantly fighting the traitor prince. Corrin has defeated Nohr at every turn, one more loss won’t be a surprise.”

You laugh at the absurdity, a dry and morose sound, but you stop when you realize Niles is serious. “You want me to fake my death and elope with a mind-controlled puppet? Niles, _truly_?”

Niles never hesitates, but he does now. He picks his words carefully, yet he speaks with an easy conviction, the confidence borne of truth. “You have given me purpose, my lord, a reason to live. If he does the same for you, then yes, that’s what I want you to do. It’s a rare pleasure to find someone worth living for.”

“I live for Nohr.”

“You’d die for Nohr, my lord.” _There’s a difference_ , he doesn’t say, because that would be too bold.

You don’t dismiss him. You wouldn’t, Niles is welcome to come and go as he wishes, so he leaves without a parting word. He’s said his piece.

 

*

 

When you meet Corrin on the battlefield, you tell him that he stands in a proper graveyard, a convenient place for people to die. You don’t clarify whether the graveyard is meant for him or for you.

You spend the battle lost in your memories. You must, or you won’t have the will to hurt Corrin. You remember how Xander dedicated himself to teaching Corrin swordfighting, how he always believed Corrin had _potential_ , that Corrin would someday become a fine swordsman and a finer leader. You remember how Camilla gathered toys and gifts to bring to Corrin, how she collected clothes and candies that reminded her of him, how she always thought of him while she paid you no mind. You remember very little of Elise at all, because she spent every day she could with Corrin, and you were not there.

You were never the center of anyone else’s world. You don’t have to be. You’re fine as you are, you are Nohrian and proud to stand on your own, but that doesn’t mean you never _wanted_ to be as beloved as Corrin.

Your jealousy is not enough. You can’t bring yourself to kill Corrin, you don’t even want to cast a spell against him. You fight on nonetheless, because what else is left for you to do? This is war. This is life or death, and if you will not deliver death, then you choose it for yourself.

Corrin defeats you in the end. You’re not surprised.

“Go on. Kill me. End this battle, just as you wish,” you say. (Takumi despairs. He would intervene, but you have him _stay_. He fights your will and doesn’t stand a chance. Too many times you’ve let him do as he wished, but now he will _obey_.)

Corrin’s blade at your neck is almost comforting. You fear what might come after life, be it endless nothingness or something far worse, but you don’t fear it any more than what tomorrow might bring. Tomorrow, Nohr steps even deeper into the darkness of its own making, and you are already tired of today.

Corrin hesitates. He still thinks of you as a little brother. You thought the war would’ve made him strong, but his heart bleeds like an open wound.

“What are you waiting for?” Your voice drops low, you dare Corrin to execute you as is his right, as is only proper. “I’m not helpless, even in this position. I could kill you right now with a spell. Make your move. What’s wrong with you?”

But Corrin sheathes his blade. Your hopes die, but you don’t. “What’s wrong with _you_? Where’s your spell? If you really wanted me dead,” he says as he extends to you an open hand, “you could’ve done it a dozen times by now.”

And that’s that. You’ve played all your cards, and now Corrin holds them all. He’s right. You were waiting for him to kill you, and you never tried to kill him. How could you? You adore him as much as your siblings do.

Corrin asks you to join him, as if you were just another lost soul he stumbled upon on his march upon Krakenburg, a recruit rather than an enemy, but you are no lost soul. Nohr is your home, and you won’t betray your family. You are already where you belong. You tell Corrin as much, but you also send him away with your blessing—a warp tome to take him to Notre Sagesse.

You don’t speak to Takumi, and he’s under strict orders to behave _normally_ , as if the two of you were near strangers, or even as if you were enemies. He throws insults at you whenever he gets a chance, and you may have thrown one or two back. Neither of you are very mature about it.

Before they leave—before _you_ leave—you linger. You look for Takumi, but you don’t approach him. He’s been battered by Faceless, he wears a collection of bruises and scrapes, and he keeps trying to tell Sakura to tend to the others before she bothers with his minor wounds. She fusses, and he pretends he doesn’t enjoy the attention.

It is nice, you think, to see Takumi behaving naturally, without your magic guiding his actions. He treats his retainers as his friends, though you know he’s occasionally thought of them as lovers. They poke fun at each other, and their difference in station only brings them closer, they are inseparable, they are bound.

He seems normal, a little too petulant for a prince, a little too intelligent for a boy. You wonder how many people know the extent of the shadows he hides within himself, how his doubts consume him when no one else is looking.

Takumi doesn’t smile. You wish he would, you wait in case you might see it, but you know he rarely smiles. That he does so often with you is _wrong_. It’s not him, it’s not who he truly is.

It is, you remind yourself, the magic that makes him love you.

You thought you would die here, in this graveyard deep within the Woods of the Forlorn, where the light can’t reach. Your death would’ve been the simplest solution to both your problems. He would go free, and you would not have to see him hate you.

Now, if you choose to end the spell, you’d have to live with the consequences. You should’ve known fate would not allow you to escape that.

You look to him again, and even in the darkness, he is beautiful.

You steel your resolve. Your power reaches out into a web of spells that connects you to Takumi, it is a marvel, finely layered and beautifully executed, a masterwork of dark magic. You destroy it.

You release Takumi. You let go of him, and you feel his mind chasing after you, and then he is gone.

Takumi staggers. Corrin’s suddenly there to catch him, and he checks if Takumi’s alright. (You’re not surprised. Of course Corrin is there for him. Every person you’ve ever cared for loves Corrin more than you. It’s _always_ Corrin.)

He tries to say something to Corrin, but he can’t find the words. He looks like you have torn the world out from under him, he looks lost, frightened, alone—abandoned. He glances at you once, and seeing you hurts him. He flinches. He doesn’t look at you again.

Takumi pushes Corrin away. He makes excuses that you can’t quite hear at this distance, and he leaves as quickly as he can. Oboro follows him, Hinata close behind after Sakura hands him a handful of concoctions. The others talk among themselves before a few dart off into the woods after them.

You remember to breathe. For a painful second, you consider going after Takumi, so that you can tell him not to blame himself, that he is without fault, that you will bear whatever burdens he would level onto you if it meant he could walk free. You want to tell him that you love him, that you would have him if he would have you.

You don’t. Takumi is already surrounded by those that care for him, even if he doesn't know that they do, even if he's convinced himself that he is worthless. You don’t have any place with them, and he belongs to the light.

You are Nohrian. It’s time for you to go home.


End file.
